Huge Ego, Sorry
by zycroft
Summary: Fantasies are an ingrained part of the process. Unless you're House. Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation at LJ.


This is entirely inappropriate. On many levels.

Intellectually, he is aware that stress could cause this; this is the body's way of ultimately making itself relax. But there is a world of difference between intellectual and emotional knowledge and the two are mutually exclusive. You can't teach intelligence to emotions and vice versa. Sort of like the right hand vs. the left hand…that thought shouldn't cause a violent twitch from the partial erection he shouldn't have.

First, nothing had really happened. It was just another day. The ducklings were irritating all day, just like always. The patient was a lying moron who didn't deserve to be saved by the best diagnostic mind in the world, but then again, most of them didn't. Wilson's lectures and "do as I say, not as I do" attitude weren't anything new. Cuddy's only new territory was wearing a workplace appropriate top, but she still hounded him about clinic hours and ethical responsibilities and basically tried to keep him from doing his job while yelling at him to do his job.

And really, how inappropriate is a partial erection while watching the news, anyway? The fat guy with the bad toupee and snaggle teeth certainly isn't behind this. In fact, just focusing on the hideous news anchor is helping to restore balance to the world. The world in which House isn't hornier than he could remember being in at least 20 years.

An opiate addict has no right to be this horny. But there it is. He'd certainly been harder many times in his life, but as far as his hormones are concerned, this is as active as they'd ever been, even when he'd lost his virginity. Just to prove it, and maybe to help that thought along, or maybe even because of it, a floodgate opened and his partial erection filled out some more and he really shouldn't moan at the sensation of it rolling over on itself in his pants.

Should vs. reality. What he should do is pour himself a drink and then sit at the piano the rest of the night. But in reality, he's going to stop pretending that he doesn't notice his legs opening just a little wider, almost as if that growing tube of flesh thinks his legs are keeping him from giving it attention. In reality, it could be fun to push the boundaries of this already really wrong situation and get one back on his body.

That's really him running the fingers of his left hand across his chest. That's really him rubbing his hands up and down his inner thighs. That's really his fully engorged cock pushing his hips up in minute thrusts, eager for some sort of contact, of friction, of relief.

When his hands go to his belt buckle, he can't breathe. When it opens with a distinct metallic clink he feels a rush of fluid stream out of his tip. The pressure of his hands popping the button of his jeans is nothing compared to the sweet, torturous pressure of his zip opening against him. The cool air assaulting the wet patch on his boxer briefs makes him whimper for more.

And really, just how huge is his ego that the only thing getting him off is him? Sure everybody masturbates, but there is always something behind it – pictures or words or ideas or specific people. Fantasies are an ingrained part of the process and wouldn't a shrink just have a field day knowing that right now his only fantasy is of what he is going to do to himself in just a few seconds?

He lifts the band of his boxer briefs and the cool air performs another delicious caress. The skin at his waist screams in protest as he drops the band back in place and there's another violent twitch under the cotton. His hands skim over random patches of skin and it doesn't matter where; every centimeter is an erogenous zone under his own touch. As he focuses on the skin at the slight swell of his hip, a finger is brushing up against the edge of the waist band just hard enough for him to feel the force all the way at the base of his cock, but not actually moving the fabric even the slightest bit. More fluid is leaking out of his tip into the cotton prison and he thinks he'll go insane from the heat trapped alongside his aching flesh.

Showing uncharacteristic mercy to himself, he lifts the band all the way off and he's a bit pleased to see his hips try to follow the material – after all, it's the only contact he's had so far. The ball of his thumb brushes against his prick as it springs up when he pushes his underwear down to his knees and a thin rope of pre-ejaculate attaches itself to his hand as if to tell him that his hand cannot escape his cock.

He brings his hand back to the base of his prick and delights in the burn of that rope collapsing onto the back of hand. His fingers are teasing the curls nestled at his base and his testicles jump in their sac at the sensation. His left hand trails up his belly and circles his navel a few times before continuing up to his right nipple where it repeats the motion. His legs strain against the shorts bunched at his knees and his toes curl inward. The dorsal artery along his length visibly thrums as his right hand wanders down to his perineum, tickling the hairs on his balls on its way down.

When his sticky thumb presses against that sweet spot, his left hand drops to his cock without his permission, but as long as it continues to randomly flex and release while stroking steadily, he'll forgive it. Anything that can elicit that sound from him deserves forgiveness.

He looks down at his hand and studies the contrast between the dark red flush of his cock and the pale white of his straining hand. If he's ever seen anything so beautiful, he cannot recall it just now. He flexes his cock into his hand and delights in the involuntary twitches that follow.

He brings his right hand to his mouth and licks the palm, then trades his left for his right. The momentary coolness during the switch forces a grunt from him and then he's hissing in a deep breath as his slick dominant hand takes over.

Not wanting to be left out, his left hand steals some moisture from his tongue, too, and then rubs it gently into the sac dangling between his straining legs. His pinky finger swipes backwards and the contact sends sparks through his body to the base of his spine, causing his right hand to contract on its return. The heat is coiling there now and if he doesn't slow his right hand and still his left entirely, it will spring loose and then the floodgates will well and truly be open then.

The warring joys of control and loss of control take over his consciousness and with a deep groan and not a few harsh pants, he feels his release rushing up his cock, feels it swell under his fingers before spurting out to pool on his belly.

Reality is almost always wrong. Almost.


End file.
